


Cross-Purposes

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 11:03:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4958011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He and Q have been, well.  “Seeing each other” has such an old-fashioned ring to it, doesn’t it?</p><p>Q invites Bond over to his; they can watch a film or something, yeah?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cross-Purposes

**Author's Note:**

> Yes. Yes, this fic is about Q inviting Bond over for Netflix and chill. You're welcome.

He’s not actually nervous, except of course he bloody is; he and Q have been, well.  “Seeing each other” has such an old-fashioned ring to it, doesn’t it?  Evoking images of Q in delicate velvet frock coats and courtly, polite kisses to the backs of those sturdy hands.  They’ve been to supper three times now, and Bond’s got a pilfered pile of bar coasters that seem to follow him home from each one.  His Aunt Charmaine would have said “walking out together”, which sounds even older, though Aunt Charmaine might have been slightly more appalled by the erection he’d felt pressed against his hip as they’d danced on their date last week than by the few, mostly chaste kisses they’ve shared.  He’d thought Q was going to invite him in after that last one; he’d honestly looked like he was considering it, but at the last moment he’d merely asked him what sorts of films he liked and invited him over for the next day off they shared.

And he doesn’t want to mess this up.  He’s got takeaway—burgers, because for a scrawny thing, Q seems to like red meat an awful lot—and he’s staring up at the building in consternation.  It looks like a council house, and he suddenly realises he has no idea which button to push; he’s still staring at the list of names when the door unlocks with a buzzing clack.  “You going to stare at the door all day, or are you going to come in, Bond?”  Q’s voice is tinny, the speaker crackling, but Bond can hear the laughter behind the tart words.

Q meets him on the landing to the fourth floor.  “Building used to be an estate until, what, ten, fifteen years ago?  Six bought the lot; I qualify for a nicer place as a section chief, but Roger in 2C has primo taste in music and never obscures his network ID.”

“And piracy is a reason to continue living—” Bond trails off.  He’s not trying to be snobby, he’s really not, but compared to his glass and chrome flat, the rooms Q leads him into are poky and small, helplessly old fashioned and tired looking.  There’s an impressive security system that Q arms behind them, but the key he feeds into the lock still has a long bit at the end of its stem.

“Course it is,” Q says sensibly.  “Shoes off, please.”  He watches Bond toe off his loafers with a little smile; when he catches Bond looking at his own feet, he wiggles his toes inside what look to be Batman socks.  Bond chuckles.

“I’ve brought burgers.  Hope that’s alright—you didn’t mention food,” Bond says, lifting the bag, and Q’s smile grows wider.

“And you like feeding me up.  That’s okay.  We’ll eat first, then.”

Q is adorably, obviously nervous.  He seats Bond in the living room on a couch he’s probably had since uni before skittering off to return with plates and forks.  “Did you bring chips, too?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer; leaning back, Bond can see down the hall as Q disappears into the kitchen for catsup.  When Q sees him looking, he waves the red plastic tomato.  “What do you want to drink?”

“I’ve brought beers!” Bond calls back, and Q disappears into the kitchen again.  He’s got a juice cup and a mug with a chipped rim when he returns.

“Er.  Forgot to run the washer,” Q tells him, and Bond laughs, reaching up to tug him, wiggling, into his lap.

“It’s fine, Q.  Sit; you’re making me antsy just looking at you.  Food.  Beer.  Films.  You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

Q’s hackles rise, just as he meant them to.  “Don’t be stupid.  Who’d be scared of you?”

“No one.  Eat your food.”

And it’s pleasant, sitting here eating with Q beside him.  It’s been a long time since he could relax so thoroughly; he can hear children outside, and the longer he sits on Q’s lumpy couch, the more the close walls grow on him.  It’s a house that’s held people in it, unlike his own sterile home, and Q’s got it covered in tiny touches he’d recognise anywhere.  Q’s favourite cardigan is hanging from the drying rack perched on the radiator, there are electronics on every available surface—the coffee table is covered with the guts of something he’ll probably end up taking on a mission in a few weeks—and there are foxes tucked into unexpected places: on the bookshelf and printed on a throw pillow and holding back the faded red curtain at the window.  Q catches him looking and flushes.

“I liked them, as a kid.  My mum and my dad and my sister send me new ones each birthday.  I’ve got salt and pepper shakers, too,” Q says.  For a moment Bond can’t find words.  He smiles, and Q’s blush goes deeper, his secret smile wider.

“It suits you,” Bond says finally.

“Because I’m clever and cheeky?”

“Because you’re foxy,” Bond corrects him, and Q rolls his eyes, laughing.  Charming; this boy is charming.

Except he can’t quite figure out Q’s strange chastity.  They’ve had three dates so far, and aside from last week’s lovely moment on the dance floor, the most he’s got out of Q is kisses.  Granted, they were wonderful kisses, but he knows Q is a grown man, knows neither of them fear sex.  He’d worry, but for the expression on Q’s face when he’d realised Bond could feel him pressed against his body as they moved together; heat steals across his skin as Bond remembers that smoky, promising look.  And then he’d been sent off with a kiss and an invitation to watch telly?  Q’s settled next to him, patiently impatient, and it’s easy to set his food aside.  He’s not particularly hungry now, not with Q squirming beside him and fiddling with the television remote like an awkward teen girl with a boy in her room for the first time—ah, perhaps that’s it?  Q has so little time for entertaining; perhaps—

“I was thinking this one,” Q says, flicking through the options with a practiced hand.  To be honest, Bond doesn’t know much about the film he’s selected; it’s a movie that was popular some time ago, full of explosions and vaguely flat, cardboard characters.  It may be a favourite, though, so he sinks into the seat and lets Q lean on him a little.  There’s beer and good company, at least, and he refuses to spoil Q’s fun.

But.  But the movie is deadly boring.  They’re twenty minutes in when he’s out of beer, but Q leans further into him and all thoughts of heading out to the off license vanish; it’s barely fifteen minutes more when Q lays his head in Bond’s lap and Bond entertains himself petting that thick pile of curls, and not long after that there are quiet snores drifting up from him.  The film ends before Q wakes, and Bond sorts through the screen.  He watches two more before the streetlamps’ sodium glow wakes Q and he crawls, stretching and yawning and blushing, up from the couch.

“I, er.  Sorry, Bond,” Q says, sweetly awkward.

“No worries.  This one’s almost over; stay and we’ll watch the rest before I have to go.”

But Q shuffles, rolls on the sides of his feet.  “No, I—lav.  I’ll be right back, okay?”

Bond’s left with the feeling he’s somehow ruined the date, especially at Q’s polite little peck as he stands on the step.  “Next week?” Bond asks hopefully, and Q hesitates.

“Sure.”  He sounds anything but.

::

So he is not going to ask Eve Moneypenny for advice.  Is not, because that is an invitation to teasing, a guaranteed way to end up frustrated and annoyed and probably shooting things.

“—he asked you over to watch a film.  Right?  That’s exactly what happened?” she asks.  Tanner makes a thoughtful humming sound in the background.  Bond frowns.

“Yes, that’s what I said.  I dropped him at his step and he gave me a look like he really wanted to ask me up but couldn’t, and then he invited me over for a film.  I agreed, snogged him breathless, and when I came back to his later, he put on the film and took a nap on me.”  Frustration simmers at the edge of his voice, and he pulls back; Tanner looks just as perplexed as he feels and Eve is working on an idea.  They’re not the ones being confusing, and shouting won’t help.  It’s only that he’d thought there was chemistry, thought Q found him desirable, and their sexless date is more and more opaque each time he examines it.

“Well,” Tanner starts, “it does take something for anyone from the office to feel comfortable enough to sleep—actually sleep—with someone—”  Eve cuts him off with an impatient wave of her hand.

“Did he suggest the film or did you?” she asks.

“He did.”

She makes a thoughtful noise.  “Did he name it when he invited you?”

“What?”  Bond stares at her.  “I don’t see the importance of—no, I mean, I don’t think he did.”

Her thoughtful noise returns, stretches and goes higher at the end.  “But you get there and he’s got the DVD waiting.”

“No?” Bond says tentatively.  Because that’s not exactly the way it went, but this attention to specifics doesn’t make sense.  “He flipped through a couple of screens to find it first.”

Eve goes still.  “Screens?”

“Yes, on the telly.”

Her snigger is unladylike.  “You’re saying Q asked you over for Netflix and—and you actually watched the movie!  Oh, oh that is rich!”

“What?” Bond asks, but there’s a light dawning on Tanner’s face and then suddenly he, too, is laughing.  “Will either of you tell me what’s so fucking funny?” Bond demands sternly.

“What, did he do the thing where you yawn and put your arm around their shoulders?  Did he put his hand on your thigh when he was reaching for the popcorn?”  Eve’s positively gleeful now, and Bond still doesn’t understand which hint he’s missed, though by now the nature of it is fairly obvious.

“Okay,” he says, and there must be something to the strained patience in his voice because the jokes trail off.  “Perhaps explain the joke so everyone can laugh?”

“It’s, er.  A thing, like asking someone to breakfast after a good date,” Tanner explains.  “You invite someone over—it’s supposed to be a low-key sort of date, no pressure—but you both know the purpose is to put on something neither of you cares about and, well.  I’m sure he didn’t mean to pick a film you actually cared for.”

“Oh, god, he didn’t.  It was an awful film.  I assumed he liked it, so I sat through it with him.”

“Oh,” Eve says, and her mocking smile goes softer.  “That’s quite a bit more romantic than he meant, I expect.”

A cold chill races down Bond’s back.  Romantic?  Was it romantic?  And then—more romantic than Q meant?  He’s bloody forty eight, far too old for the sort of “does he/doesn’t he” sensation that’s hopscotching his insides right now.  “So he was after sex after all?” he asks, and Eve smoothes her hand over his shoulder.

“Well, I’m sure he was going for it at the time.  Perhaps he got nervous, or shy?”  She sounds placating, and James Bond’s not one to be gentled like a teenage girl, no matter that he’s gone to friends for advice about a boy.  He shrugs brusquely, but for the rest of the day, he turns the idea over in his head.

::

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Bond says, and to his credit, Q doesn’t try to deny it.  He shrugs and turns to face Bond openly.

“You’ve found me,” he says, and Bond can feel his lip twitch in a smile.  There’s the Q he’s become so fond of: quick, bold.  Braver than many.

“Can I take you out to dinner, then?” Bond asks.

Q freezes, thawing just as quickly.  “If you like.”  There’s no hint of the eagerness from before, and Bond’s stomach turns to jelly at the thought that Q’s cooled to him.  Even so—even so, he reasons to himself, he wants to give this a proper send off, if Q doesn’t want him after all.  If he does….

“Shall I meet you here at eight?  It’s a bit late, I think, for supper, normally, but I’d like to open a bottle of wine after and I’ll need help finishing it.”  It’s subtle enough, an old come on that usually worked in uni.  Q doesn’t tune to it, or if he does he doesn’t dignify it with a response.

“Eight’s good,” Q says instead, and when Bond presses a parting kiss to the corner of his mouth, he’s noticeably less chilly than before.

Dinner’s good.  Despite a little tension at the beginning of the meal, by the time they’ve finished their food, he’s got Q flushed and giddy on wine and cheerful conversation.  He’s still laughing breathlessly when the server comes by with the cake trolley, and he shakes his head with the air of someone gone slightly squiffy, pink-cheeked and glowing.  “No, no, not at all.  I absolutely can’t fit any more food in me,” Q protests, and Bond watches fondly as an amused smile blooms on the server’s face.  “I will pop.”

“None for me either, thanks,” Bond tells the server when he looks over, and after the bill’s paid it’s easy to loop his arm around Q’s waist to guide him out.  It’s easier still to meander with him through the streets, an excuse to keep his hands on Q’s body that’s so warm through his thin wool coat.  Daylight savings is past and the streets are cold and dark now at this time of night, and Q huddles close to him, still wobbling a little.  Bond bites the bullet:

“Want to come to mine for dessert?” he asks, because Q is lovely like this.  He’s soft and pliant, beautiful in ways that pull at Bond’s guts and tie them to knots.

Q snorts.  Bond’s stomach falls to his knees.  “Do you fancy I’m Mr. Creosote?  ‘It’s wafer thin!’  No, thanks; I really can’t eat any more.  Dinner was,” he trails off, voice dreamy, “gorgeous is the word I’m looking for, I think.  Gorgeous.  As in, I gorged myself and I may be sick if I tried to fit anything else in.  It’s been a wonderful night, Bond.”  And his eyes are soft, open and affectionate, with no guile.  There’s pure, tipsy happiness on his face, and Bond smiles at him.  Q’s smile back is lovely, too.

“No more food, then,” Bond confirms, the smile tucked into the corner of his mouth wry.  As if he’d been offering food.  “Let me walk you to your house, at least.  You’re likely to fall over, I think.”

“I’m not really drunk, you know.  The air out here’s really cool.  It’s refreshing.”  Bond smiles and listens to Q prattle.  Before he knows it, they’re at Q’s front door, and Q’s already unlocked the fire door before Bond realises that he really does want to try again.  He really, really wants to try again.

“Can I come up for a coffee?”  And normally it’s the other way around; it’s not really done to invite yourself into someone else’s home, but the words are out and it’s hard not to bounce on his toes like an expectant child.  

Q’s nose wrinkles and.  Oh.  Perhaps—?  He’s read all the signs wrong; Q meant to end things here, and Bond’s gone and stuck his heart in the door to keep him from closing it, and Q hasn’t noticed, but—“You know I don’t keep it at home.  I told you last time you were over.”  Q’s voice is slightly petulant, the corners of his mouth turned down.

“Yeah,” Bond says, stepping back from the door, from Q.  “I forgot, sorry.”  He’s shuffling back, fleeing as discreetly as possible, then.  He’s mistaken—it’s mortifying.  Bond pastes on a weak smile.  He’ll go before he has a chance to make a bigger fool of himself.

Something clicks behind Q’s eyes and they go wide and round and sweet.  “But I can—tea?  I mean, it’s not—but if you’d like—?”

Bond grins.  “Yeah, tea’s good, too.”  

Q’ hand in his is sturdy, but still it’s somehow sweet as he leads Bond inside, up the stairs and past the old-fashioned door.  Courting—that’s another name for what they’ve been doing.  This time they pass the living room and the big, dark television to find Q’s bedroom with its untidy duvet and the smell of Q’s hair in the pillows. They skip the tea; Bond kisses Q deeply as he pushes him back into the bed.  

And in the morning he makes breakfast.


End file.
